OE  CALIF..,  LIBRABY,  LOS  AUGELES 


THE   HILLS  OF   ARCETRI 


THE 
HILLS  OF  ARGETRI 

BY 
LEOLYN    LOUISE     EVERETT 


LONDON:    JOHN  LANE  THE  BODLEY  HEAD 
NEW  YORK  :  JOHN  LANE  COMPANY  MCMXXI 


The  Afaxffenver  Press,  Plymouth,  England.     William  Brcndon  &  Son,  Ltd. 


TO 
ABBY 


2128864 


PROLOGUE 

IF  I  had  dared  I  would  have  liked  to  call 
this  book  "  Glamour,"  but  the  quality  is 
so  elusive  and  so  contradictory  that  however 
much  I  offered  it  of  secret  homage  I  could  not 
shout  its  name  aloud  lest  it  escape  me  altogether. 
The  desire  at  any  rate  expresses  the  view-point 
and  some  part  of  my  attitude  toward  Italy 
herself  :  that  she  is  so  beautiful  and  wonderful 
one  may  not  take  her  name  in  vain.  Yet  the 
penalty  of  being  beautiful  and  wonderful  is 
to  have  one's  name  taken — in  all  kinds  of  ways  ; 
and  having  apologized  I  proceed,  like  any  other 
lover,  to  chant  it  to  a  tune  of  my  own.  What 
I  would  like  to  explain  about  my  particular 
tune  is  that  it  concerns  itself  not  with  my 
lady's  eyes  but  with  the  way  she  looks  out  of 
them,  not  with  my  lady's  hands  but  with  their 
gestures,  not  with  my  lady's  limbs  but  with 

9 


their  motions.  You  will  not  learn  from  any 
song  of  mine  the  colour  of  her  shining  hair  or 
the  shape  of  her  exquisite  face,  but  if  there 
floats  by  you  in  a  little  wandering  breath  some 
faint  veiled  hint  of  that  allure  of  hers  I  shall 
be  wholly  content.  Surely  Italy,  paeaned  from 
sea  to  sea  in  every  tongue,  has  had  of  all  deities 
the  least  of  this  kind  of  homage,  for  the  very 
fact  that  the  charm  was  so  potent  rendered  it 
awesome,  and  if  my  betters  have  dared  strike 
at  the  soul  of  her,  most  of  us,  who  for  pure 
love,  mark  you,  however  limited,  cannot  refrain 
from  babbling,  have  lapsed  into  rhapsodic 
catalogues.  Ay,  but  the  mere  syllables  of 
San  Miniato,  of  Giotto's  campanile,  of  Ravenna, 
of  Santa  Maria  della  Pieve,  are  so  vision-pro- 
ducing, can  we  do  aught  save  echo  them  ? 
And  we  list  them — "  item,  two  lips  indifferent 
red  " — alas,  but  we  lack  the  magician's  touch 
that  makes  those  pale  lips  smile ! 

To  drop  the  metaphor  (with  regret,  so 
completely  does  Italy  demand  the  phrase- 
ology of  the  goddess)  and  descend  to  simple 
fact  and  simple  truth,  it  seems  to  me  that  our 
ardour  and  our  admiration  for  the  features 
of  her  country,  the  stories  of  her  history  and 

10 


the  products  of  her  arts  have  tended  in  a 
certain  sense  to  blur  our  real  knowledge  of 
her.  I  trust  that  the  statement  does  not 
sound  too  bold  :  merely  it  resolves  itself  into 
the  fact  that,  if  her  supreme  contribution  to 
the  world  is  and  has  been  aesthetic,  one  battle- 
scene  of  Paolo  Uccello's  is  in  its  significance 
vastly  superior  to  the  dates  and  data  of  fifty 
sieges.  It  is  in  a  glorious  flash  an  epoch,  the 
quintessence,  the  fine  flavour  of  it,  and  if  you 
could  call  each  one  of  the  figures  in  that 
struggling  crowd  by  name  and  give  his  dates 
of  birth  and  death  it  would  not  make  the 
whole  by  the  shadow  of  one  heart-beat  more 
real.  It  is  not  that  the  details  in  themselves 
lack  interest,  (indeed  one  could  hardly  say 
that  in  all  the  maddening  and  magnificent 
mass  of  detail  in  Italy  one  single  item  lacks 
interest,)  it  is  that  we  are  obsessed  by  them, 
blinded  by  them.  We  see  not  the  tapestry 
but  the  stitches,  delicate,  precise  and  fine  ; 
not  the  picture  but  the  brush-strokes,  smooth, 
deft  and  accurate  ;  we  are  weary  and  stumbling 
yet  eager.  The  waves  beat  us  to  and  fro  in 
the  sea  of  her  splendour. 

So    I,    considering   her   greatness    and   our 
n 


littleness,  have  sought  for  symbols  whereby 
to  express  to  us,  as  I  am  able,  those  inimitable 
ways  of  hers.  You  need  not  look  for  the 
turret  though  there  are  many  such  and  in  all 
the  sad  long  lists  of  children  untimely  slain 
you  will  not  find  the  name  of  the  baby  who 
walked  by  the  pool.  I  were  more  fain  to 
believe,  were  it  not  too  great  a  patent  of 
nobility,  that  the  lady  slumbering  in  the 
citadel  were  kin  to  "  my  last  duchess  painted 
on  the  wall "  than  to  one  of  the  Sforza  brood 
and  who  would  care  for  the  genealogy  of  an 
Arab  slave — yet  listen  and  you  can  hear  her 
song  yourself  ! 

How  little,  beloved  Italy,  from  me  who 
would  have  brought  you  so  much — yet  never 
your  due  !  Of  all  the  flowers  I  can  but  say 
that  they  have  grown  in  your  garden,  those  of 
yesterday  and  to-day,  the  humblest  and  the 
proudest  and  I  have  not  sorted  them  or  given 
them  long  Greek  names  but  I  have  twined 
them  into  this  small  garland  that  their  perfumes 
may  mingle,  for  is  not  the  soul  of  the  rose, 
from  Paestum  to  Persia  with  all  between 
and  beyond,  in  its  breath  ? 

Thus  for  the  sake  of  that  degree  in  which 

12 


they  are  yours  I  shall  believe  that  the  fragrance 
may  linger,  knowing  that  if  the  gods  will, 
the  passer-by  may  glimpse  the  sudden  colour- 
splashed  vista  of  the  garden  through  one  fallen 
blossom. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

GREY  .          .  .          .  19 

OCHRE          .          .          .          .          ...     25 

MAGENTA     .          .          .          .          .          »     29 

GOLD 35 

SAPPHIRE      ......     41 

SEPIA  .          .          .          .          .  51 

CHRYSOPRASE          .          .          .          •  '       •     57 
RUSSET          .          .          .          .          .          -63 

MAUVE          ......     69 

PURPLE         .         .         .         .         .         -73 

ROSE    .......     79 


GREY 


A  SOFT  fine  mist  of  rain 
At  the  end  of  an  April  day- 
Grey  from  dawn  to  dusk, 
From  the  first  light 
In  the  east, 

That  showed  the  villas  pale 
On  the  shadowy  slopes 
All  blurred 

With  the  feathery  olive  trees 
And  the  valleys  dark  between, 
To  the  rift 

In  the  twilight  clouds  : 
A  single  line  of  gold 
Threading  the  cypresses. 
The  gardens  are  wild  with  bloom, 
Roses  and  mignonette, 
Spiraea  in  milky  showers, 
The  trellised  wistaria, 
(Winged  and  ready  to  fly 
Like  the  lanterns  of  Orient  elves 
Aswing  in  the  drifting  wind) 
The  tulip's  goblet 
Raised 

In  all  colours  of  ancient  glass 
In  a  toast  to  the  vagrant  spring, 

19 


The  gorgeous  iris  brave 

In  the  splendour  of  her  shield 

As  befits  a  Florentine 

Of  such  lustrous  lineage — 

And  perfume — 

Mingled  and  massed  and  wrought 

To  a  miracle, 

White  rose, 

Yellow  and  red  and  pink, 

The  exquisite  heliotrope, 

The  young  verbena's  green, 

The  first  geranium 

And  last  of  the  lemon  flowers 

Ah,  but  my  heart  is  sad 
In  spite  of  the  loveliness 
For  I  have  seen  on  the  roads 
The  old  ghosts  walk  and  nod 
And  ponder  and  shake  their  heads 
(The  magnificent  men  of  state 
Who  watch  the  centuries 
From  their  immortal  tombs) 
And  their  query  was  ever  this  : 
The  fate  of  the  modern  world, 
This  agonized  thing 
Evolved 

From  the  pride  of  our  desires 

20 


And  the  daring  of  our  brains. 

You  did  not  see  him  there 

Draw  back 

With  his  fur-edged  robe 

Just  under  your  motor's  wheel 

But  I  know  his  sombre  eyes 

And  that  gaunt  keen  face  of  his. 

Often  he  walked  this  way 

In  times  less  perilous 

Altho'  the  invader  stood 

Upon  the  mountain's  crest 

And  the  sight  of  Italy 

Was  madness  to  his  heart — 

As  it  has  ever  been. 

Often  he  walked  this  way 

With  a  brow  less  furrowed 

By  thought 

Tho'  the  rival  factions  poised, 

With  honey  on  their  lips 

And  poison  in  their  hearts, 

Alert  and  ready  to  spring. 

The  marvellous  grey  old  ghosts 
With  their  glories  and  their  deeds 
Only  breaking  their  rest 
As  they  contemplate  the  world — 


21 


And  spring  is  the  breath  of  life 
Over  the  struggling  earth 
And  the  gardens  are  in  bloom. 


22 


OCHRE 


THE  intense  heat  of  noon 
Lies  on  the  square, 
White  and  blistering  ; 
The  tall  blank  faces 
Of  the  houses  round 
Give  back  reflected  light 
From  their  hot  pallor  ; 
The  fine  white  dust 
Is  thick  on  everything, 
Even  the  bright  green  blinds 
All  drawn  close 
Are  powdered  white — 
So  that  there  are  no  accents 
Anywhere 

Except  one  small  brave  fountain 
In  the  strip 
Of  narrow  shade 
The  overhanging  roofs 
Steal  from  midday. 
One  little  fountain 
Dark 

And  infinitely  cool 
In  its  suggestion 
And  its  remembrances 
Of  woodland  springs 


That  trickle  down 

From  the  moist  circle 

Of  the  sea-child's  shell, 

To  the  smooth  little  pool 

That  over-runs 

In  turn  to  the  scorched  pavement 

Only  breaks 

The  close  oppressive  silence, 

Fitful  and  pitiful  and  sweet 

At  once— 

As  if  it  were  a  small  and  pleasant  dream 

Loitering  for  unlikely  preference — 

Not  in  the  pallor 

Of  some  moon-swept  night — 

But  here  where  summer  lays  a  burning  hand 

On  the  choked  city 

In  siesta  time. 


MAGENTA 


AjAINST  the  hot  white  summer  sky 
The  splendid  surge  of  the  hills 
Lies  in  silhouette. 
The  old  pale  villa  on  the  height 
Fades  amid  its  cypress  trees. 
On  such  a  day  as  this  with  the  drowsy  heat 
Stirred  by  a  little  languid  breeze — 
Just  enough  to  bear 
The  sound  of  the  bells  of  the  city 
Up  between 

The  tended  olive  trees — 
In  its  garden  walked 
A  child  as  lovely  as  sunrise, 
Golden-haired,  of  a  race 
Famed  for  their  beauty. 
He  could  not  stray  afar 
So  carefully  guarded  there 
In  his  Paradise  ; 
Yet  there 

On  the  fountain's  brink, 
In  the  shade 

Of  the  too  secret  cypress  trees, 
A  scowling  fellow  lurked 
Bitterly  swift  and  adept 
With  the  knife  that  flashed  in  the  sun 

29 


And  stained  the  inlaid  stones 
Redder  than  poppy  leaves 
With  such  innocent  blood, 
Alas! 

Milord  the  millionaire 

Has  taken  the  place  they  say 

And  the  mournful  cypress  trees 

Will  be  cut  down 

And  the  stagnant  pool  drained  free 

Of  the  poisonous  vapours  it  has  exhaled  to  men 

For  the  last  five  hundred  years. 

So  be  it ! 

I  wish  we  might 

Drain  the  old  enmities 

And  the  senseless  hates 

And  the  lawless  jealousies 

Along  with  it — 

But  no ; 

There  is  glamour  still 

And  tragedy 

Because  on  those  broken  mosaics 

A  baby  walked 

Five  hundred  years  ago 

And  was  killed. 

How  we  love  our  grief, 

30 


The  eternal  spectacle 

Of  our  nothingness, 

The  colour  of  sorrow, 

Its  delicate  shadings  and  tones ! 

Just  such  a  day, 

With  the  clamorous  bells  upborne 

By  the  fitful  wind 

And  the  peaceful  curve  of  the  hills 

Distinct  as  a  silhouette 

Against  the  hot  white  sky ! 


GOLD 


ON  the  hill-slopes 
They  are  garnering  grain 
Between  the  olive  trees ; 
Golden  and  grey 
The  symphony 
Breaks  into  the  song 
Of  the  unseen  peasants ; 
Strong  brazen  voices 
Chanting 

A  re-iterant  refrain, 
Old  as  the  hills  themselves 
Its  origin  veiled  and  lost 
In  the  haze  of  antiquity, 
Brought  out  of  the  East — who  knows  ?- 
By  some  Crusading  lord 
Who  trailed  in  his  gorgeous  train 
An  Arab  woman  wise 
In  the  subtle  lore  of  her  race. 
He  used  her  as  a  slave 
And  when  he  was  ill  called  loud 
For  that  marvellous  skill  of  hers 
Always  a  hint  afraid 
Lest  she  poison  her  secret  herbs 
In  revenge  for  a  fancied  slight 
Yet  still  more  afraid  of  the  shade 

35 


Of  the  dreaded  pestilence 
With  only  her  mystic  gift 
To  hold  it  at  bay — 
And  life 

So  sweet  and  red  in  those  days  ! 
The  monotonous  rise  and  fall 
May  have  soothed  his  pain  away 
In  her  first  Italian  days 
Before  she  stopped  to  cure 
A  child  in  agony 

On  the  very  steps  of  the  Church — 
Such  insolence ! 
They  knew 

Only  the  Devil  himself 
Could  have  stopped  a  heathen  there 
On  such  a  mission 
And  so 

The  festival  of  the  saint — 
Beata — Beata — Apollonia — 
Was  opened  auspiciously 
When  they  burnt  her 
In  the  square 

And  her  lord  looked  on  between 
Fear  and  relief  and  knelt 
And  crossed  himself 
So  much 

That  his  sword-arm  ached. 

36 


To-day 

They  have  wedded  the  strange  sad  strain 

To  one  of  the  Virgin's  tales, 

Such  simple  loving  words 

Of  how  she  stooped  and  blessed 

The  reapers  of  the  grain, 

The  treaders  of  the  wine, 

Out  of  her  tender  heart. 

But  this  is  a  later  thing. 

As  I  hear  the  old  wild  note 
With  the  dominant  ending  fling, 
The  tragic  insistent  beat, 
I  know  it  never  gushed  forth 
From  a  story  pure  as  that, 
All  fragrant  with  humble  joy 
And  tranquil  with  humble  grief. 

Old  as  the  cypress  trees, 
Thro'  devious  unknown  ways 
Hidden  eight  hundred  years 
Living  outcast,  alone, 
Like  its  singer 
Until  the  taint 
Of  its  far  mysterious  lure 
Vanished  before  the  Sign 

37 


And  Symbol  of  our  Hope : 

The  Virgin  Mother  stooped 

In  her  azure  robe 

From  Heaven 

For  ever  leaning  out 

To  take  in  her  tender  hands 

The  sorrow  of  the  world  ; 

And  the  legend  wound  itself 

Like  a  vine 

Around  the  notes 

And  the  children  sing  it  still. 

This  is  the  deeper  life, 

History's  super-self, 

The  forever-unanswered  things 

Glamoured  with  magic  wrought 

From  the  deathless  soul  of  man, 

Caught  by  an  instant's  flash 

In  a  song  the  peasants  sing 

While  they  garner  the  yellow  wheat. 


SAPPHIRE 


NIGHT  settles 
In  the  sweet  silence 
Of  the  ancient  garden. 
The  pallor  in  the  sky 
Slowly  deepens 
To  sapphire  darkness. 
The  garlanded  vines 
And  the  olives 
Merge  in  the  shadows 
To  one  soft  greyness 

Against  the  transparent  and  lingering  gold 
Of  the  vanished  sunset. 
In  the  garden 
A  little  bat  hastens 
With  swiftly  marked  flight 
From  the  ebony  black 
Of  the  splendid  magnolia 
To  the  roses  that  hang 
Wan  and  faint  in  the  gloaming 
On  the  walls  that  enfold 
All  the  slumberous  scents 
Of  the  lemons  and  box, 
Of  verbena  and  lilies, 

41 


Of  jasmine  and  pansies, 
Of  the  little  old  garden 
So  sweet  and  so  simple, 
So  tender  and  smiling 
In  this,  its  great  age, 
As  if  all  its  secrets, 
Its  memories  of  princes, 
Of  merchants  and  nobles, 
Of  servants  and  priests, 
All  its  later  unlearning 
Of  glamour  and  sorrow, 
Of  splendour  and  rapture, 
Were  changed  by  the  spell 
Of  the  first  hinted  starlight — 
So  wan  and  so  pale, 
Ah  paler  than  roses 
In  the  flush  of  the  heaven — 
By  the  exquisite  charm 
Of  the  delicate  starlight 
Were  mingled  and  blent 
And  distilled  to  perfume. 


42 


II 


The  old  black  courtyard 

Always  will  be  sinister. 

The  little  hot  and  vivid  spot  of  noon 

Is  like  a  stain 

And  the  long  silver  line 

The  full  moon  trails 

In  the  half-empty  well 

Becomes  a  dagger- thrust, 

With,  overhead, 

The  ancient  twisted  iron 

In  the  dark 

A  scaffold 

For  the  secret  deaths  of  kings. 

Men  have  forgotten 

All  the  history 

That  clung  about  the  dying  cypresses 

Of  that  small  villa 

On  its  lonely  hill 

And  if  its  mignon  galleries  were  raised 

To  be  the  whispered  and  the  shy  delight 

Of  some  soft  liaison 

A  weary  duke 

Stole  from  the  cares  of  state, 

No  footfall  now 

Of  his  young  mistress  moves  along  the  halls. 

43 


Not  one  of  all  the  many  little  rooms 
A-mouldering  behind  the  jealous  shutters 
Remembers  that  it  heard  a  lover's  vow 
And  from  the  windows 
No  fair  face  looks  out 
Scanning  the  climbing  road 
With  eagerness. 
If,  in  the  faded  fresco 
On  the  wall 

Of  that  bleak  silent  courtyard, 
Cropped  and  curled 
That  is  his  profile 
Placed  that  she  might  see 
And  loiter  in  her  amorous  domain, 
Only  the  cruel  lips 
And  hawk-like  eyes 
Bespeak  the  warrior 
Whose  doughty  deeds 
Time  has  devoured 
With  all  the  rest  beside. 
Would  he  might  speak 
And  break  the  subtle  vines 
Of  legend  that  are  growing  round  the  place — 
No,  better  to  be  silent ! 
To  deny 

That  blood  and  sorrow  marked  it   for  their 
own 

44 


With  marks  so  strong  and  so  indelible 

The  centuries  have  not  erased  them  yet 

Were  futile 

And  no  story  he  could  tell 

Were  half  as  rich 

In  prescience  and  in  fear 

As  the  cold  weight 

Of  this  oblivion. 

There  is  a  thickness  in  the  air 

That  makes 

The  darkness  deeper 

Than  it  was  below 

And  in  the  valley 

All  the  lights  have  grown 

Remote  and  still 

Like  distant  watching  eyes  ; 

Even  the  fragrance 

Of  one  ragged  rose 

Clutching  at  life 

Amid  the  lank  rank  grass 

Is,  in  the  stillness, 

Strange  and  ominous 

As  if  it  blossomed  from  a  hidden  grave. 


45 


Ill 

The  midsummer  moon 

Is  full 

Above  the  cloister. 

A  little  wind 

Creeps  in  and  out 

Around  the  belfry 

As  if  it  would  ring 

The  sleeping  bells. 

Their  voices  would  be  different 

Than  in  the  day — 

Remote 

With  the  remoteness 

Of  this  calm  exquisite  night — 

Silvery  and  faint 

Ghostly 

Bidding  ghostly  monks 

Arise  and  pray 

As  they  were  wont  to  do 

In  the  midnight. 

The  line  of  the  descending  road 

To  the  valley 

Is  wanly  white 

In  the  pale  moon-darkness 

And  the  arch  of  the  bridge 

Is  sharply  drawn 

46 


Like  ebony 

Across  the  glimmering  curve 

Of  the  quiet  river 

That  loiters 

Thro'  the  velvety  meadows. 

The  words 

Of  passionate  prayer 

Are  lost 

In  the  silence 

But  the  weight 

Of  prayer 

Is  on  the  heart 

Heavy  and  sweet  at  once 

Both  peace  and  pain. 

And  black 

The  wooden  crosses  stand 

In  the  tangled  garden  bloom, 

Poor  mute  memorials 

Of  faith, 

All  overgrown 

With  the  merciful  lavish  surge 

Of  the  flowers 

That  are  June : 

The  remorseless  dual  truth 

That  life  and  death  are  one 

Made  starkly  manifest 

In  this  sanctuary 

47 


Raised 

Lest  the  senses 
Should  betray 
The  eternal  verities. 


48 


SEPIA 


THIS  is  a  day  of  dreams. 
The  mists  have  folded 
Round  the  city 
Like  soft  white  veils. 
The  old  brown  gates 
And  the  bell  towers 
Are  lost ; 

Only  the  mountains  above 
Remain 
Intensely  blue 
Against  a  colourless  sky. 

There  is  a  lean  grey  turret 

That  looks  out  from  the  hill-side 

As  it  has  looked  for  centuries. 

To-day  it  has  isolated  itself 

And  returned  to  the  Middle  Ages 

And  remembers  only 

The  stormy  noble 

Who  built  it 

And  the  long-dead  ladies 

Who  sat  beside  its  windows 

And  watched  the  valley 

Below, 

The  silver  curve  of  the  river 


And  the  turbulent  city, 

Scornfully 

With  breaking  hearts 

As  befitted  princesses. 

Its  empty  mouldy  corridors 

With  the  dark  stains 

Of  the  dampness 

On  their  walls 

Echo  to  the  flying  feet 

Of  little  pages 

Crying  out, 

"  Beware  !  Beware  ! 

Old  Baldassare 

Coming  back 

Half  dead  with  haste 

Says  that  the  Guelfs 

Are  triumphant  in  the  city ! 

Next  moment  the  dogs 

Will  be  at  the  door 

And  the  master  away 

With  Ezzelino  of  Verona  !  " 

It  remembers 

No  less  than  sieges 

In  which  it  was  as  warlike, 

As  capable  of  defence, 

As  Buondelmonte's  new  palazzo 

There,  the  first  square 

52 


Beyond  the  Arno. 

It  remembers 

Old  stories 

And  its  old  splendours 

And  is  glad 

That  its  windows  are  closed 

And  blank 

And  scornful 

So  that  it  cannot  see 

The  new  white  villa 

Perched  impudently 

On  the  opposite  hill, 

A  villa  all  doors 

And  windows 

And  unprotected  terraces, 

No  good  for  anything. 

After  a  while 

The  mists  will  rise 

And  the  valley 

Will  teem  with  life  again 

And  the  new  clangours 

Of  the  new  civilization 

Will  rise 

In  place 

Of  the  old  voices 

And  the  tower 

53 


Will  be  a  place 

Only  for  an  artist 

Or  a  madman, 

With  the  big  poderi 

And  the  little  poderi 

Surging 

Fertile  and  lavish 

Up  to  its  ruined  portals. 

Is  it  sad 

Or  is  it  joyous 

That  it  would  take  a  fortune 

To  repair  those  broken  walls 

Of  yours 

And  retrieve  you 

From  the  Middle  Ages 

Where  the  white  heat  mists 

Leave  you 

Dreaming  ? 


54 


CHRYSOPRASE 


IN  the  level  evening  light 
The  folds  of  the  hills 
Are  like  velvet 
Infinitely  soft 
And  far,  very  far  away, 
Where  the  mountains 
Have  just  ceased 
To  be  white 

In  this  sudden  flush  of  the  spring 
There  is  one  marvellous  cloud 
Heaped  gold 
With  purple  shadows, 
A  god-like  parapet 
From  which  to  lean 
And  view  the  puppets. 
To-day  was  f  esta 
And  all  the  warm  yellow  hours 
Of  noon 

And  all  the  warm  rose  hours 
Of  twilight 

There  have  been  singing  voices 
On  the  high  walled  street. 
Oh  rising  wind 
That  comes  at  nightfall 

57 


Out  of  the  hazy  glimmer 

Of  the  west 

Merciful  wind 

Summer  night  wind 

With  the  first  warmth, 

This  young  and  fervid  summer 

Met 

And  kissed 

On  the  hill-top 

Beneath  the  pale  waxing  moon, 

Now  in  the  little  pause 

We  could  think 

You  had  blown 

All  the  singers  away 

And  left  us  isolate 

On  the  edge  of  the  greater  dark — 

The  dark 

With  no  moon 

Only  the  waning  bells 

The  melodious  swinging  bells 

The  constant  vesper  bells 

Following  out  and  out 

Fainter  and  more  faint 

Who  knows  that  we  shall  not  say 
In  the  poignant  pang  of  it, 
"How  beautiful  was  the  world !  " 


This  marvellous  evening  blent 

So  close  to  the  needs 

Of  the  heart, 

This  beneficent  hush 

Of  night, 

Has  hidden  the  lesser  things, 

Blurred  with  its  mystic  veil 

All  the  keen  exquisite  line 

And  colour 

Of  the  day. 

Only  the  lovely  earth 

Lies  half 

In  the  arms  of  sleep 

And  half  awake  for  the  bliss 

Of  its  languorous  repose. 

Surely  we  might  look  back 

From  that  golden  parapet 

That  pales  against  the  sky 

Forgetting  for  evermore 

The  ardours  of  the  day 

And  their  pangs 

Of  joy  and  pain, 

Remembering 

To  hold 

For  a  thousand  years 

Of  time 

And  the  rest  of  eternity 

59 


That  vision 

Undefiled — 

The  curve  and  flow  of  the  hills 

And  the  young  star  in  the  west 

Still  vaguely  amorous 

Of  the  sunset — 

Thus  made  real 

In  its  deathless  loveliness 

The  perfect  fallacy 

Of  miraculous  simple  peace 

In  a  world — 

Oh  gracious  God, 

Pity  us  as  we  look, 

As  even  now  we  look ! — 

In  a  world  that  lives  by  war ! 


60 


RUSSET 


THERE  is  an  old  old  contadino  house, 
A  "  casa  colonica," 
That  has  grown 
Out  of  the  hill-side 
With  the  olive  trees. 
Now  that  the  grain  is  gathered 
The  overtones 
Are  all  golden-brown. 
The  reaped  fields 
And  faded  walls 
And  old  tiled  roofs 
At  curious  angles, 

The  wall  that  climbs  the  slope  behind 
With  its  square  towers, 
The  sharp-sprung  spire 
From  the  city 
Beyond, 
All  merge 
In  the  yellow  light 
Of  the  sunset 
To  such  a  symphony 
Of  warm  ruddy  colour, 
Only  the  olive  trees 
Remaining 
Persistently 

63 


Coolfand  grey 
In  the  sheen. 

It  has  an  outside  staircase 

That  runs  up  obliquely 

To  a  little  window 

With  a  roof  of  its  own 

And  always  I  think 

Of  "  The  Jewels  of  the  Madonna  " 

And  wonder  for  what  loves  and  hates 

So  simple  and  so  poignant 

A  scene  is  set. 

One  night 

In  the  dark 

Of  the  moon 

A  girl  with  a  candle 

Went  up  that  flight  of  steps. 

Her  figure  against  the  wall 

Stood  out 

In  moving  silhouette 

And  she  was  "  Maliella  " 

For  ever ; 

With"Gennaro" 

Below  in  the  garden, 

(That  is  only  a  little  bare  space 

Won  from  the  terraced  olive  trees 

64 


But  with  an  archway 

Such  as  "  Rafaele  "  looked  thro') 

With  "  Gennaro  " 

Sick  with  love 

And  the  splendour  of  mystic  sin 

Wrought  out  of  his  pain 

From  the  blasphemous  words 

On  his  rival's  lips. 

I  suppose 

She  is  a  good  simple  girl 

Who  works  in  the  fields  all  day 

And  sleeps  without  dreams  at  night. 

There  are  many  such 

Who  pass 

Thro'  the  street  on  holidays 

Singing 

Because  their  hearts 

Are  blithe  and  pure — 

But  for  me 

She  is  "  Maliella  "  still 
And  shall  be  evermore — 
Wild  heart  and  desperate 
Caught  by  the  garish  lure 
Of  one  day's  coarse  revelry 
In  the  web  of  eternal  doom — 
E  65 


Because  I  saw  her  pass 

With  the  flickering  candle-light 

Across  her  bosom's  curve, 

A  circle  on  the  wall 

In  which  she  moved, 

Alone 

Up  to  her  little  room. 


66 


MAUVE 


ON  this  hazy  humid  autumn  day 
The  great  clouds 
Are  piled  high 
Billowy  white 
With  scowling  black  above 
L  owering — lowering 
Over  the  misty  hills 
Where  fog,  like  spray, 
Drifting  thro'  the  obscure  valleys 
Slowly  winds 
Up  toward  the  summits 
In  phantom  draperies. 
A  solitary  spot  of  sun 
Gleams  wanly 
On  little  Settignano 
Straggling  irregularly 
Up  the  slope, 
Brave  little  Settignano 
With  her  memories. 
Oh  my  Tuscany, 
My  changing  subtle  country 
Of  song  and  silences, 
Of  tragedy  and  jest — 
Unvarying  merely 
In  the  degree  of  beauty 
69 


For  ever  ultimate, 

To-day  your  finger 

Is  on  your  lip 

And  you  have  drawn  about  you 

The  splendid  concealing  mantle 

Of  history 

So  that  we  stand 

Only  at  the  threshold 

Of  your  domain 

And  wonder 

That  we  ever  dared — 

Greatly  vaunting 

In  our  brief  day ! — 

To  call  you  our  own. 


70 


PURPLE 


NOW  the  grapes  hang 
Heavy  and  purple 
On  the  garlanded  vines 
And  the  wind  is  cool 
From  the  circling  hills. 
The  haze  of  the  heat 
That  hung  so  close 
Day  after  day 
On  the  shadowy  slopes 
And  along  the  line 
Of  the  river, 
Jade 

And  silver, 
Has  fled 

And  the  farthest  height — 
Look ! — gives  birth 
To  a  citadel  town 
Supremely  brave 
Against  the  sky. 
My  ear  hears  echo 
Of  a  tale 
Of  a  noble  lady, 
Lovely  as  death 
Pallid  and  wan 
As  a  past  desire, 

73 


Who  dwelt  immured 

Where  her  jealous  lord 

Could  feed  his  hate 

On  her  solitude. 

She  met  her  lover — 

God  knows  how ! — 

Some  autumn  night 

When  the  moon  was  low 

And  the  night  had  absorbed 

To  its  secret  soul 

The  sombre  bulk 

Of  her  palace-tomb — 

A  common  ebony 

Shot  thro' 

Like  the  streak 

Of  the  moon 

On  the  stagnant  pool 

With  that  passionate  desperate  love  of  hers 

A  noble  lady 

Lovely  as  death 

Pallid  and  wan 

As  a  past  desire 

Nobody  knows 

When  her  lord  returned 

Or  when  he  strangled 

Her  perfect  throat — 

For  men  were  masters  of  that  craft 

74 


In  the  ancient  days 

When  life  and  death 

Went  hand  in  hand 

And  were  amorous ! 

Ah  but  he  ordered 

A  splendid  tomb 

Where  she  lies  so  quiet, 

As  if  asleep, 

Placid  at  last 

And  adorned  with  flowers 

Blossoming  ever  in  the  stone 

And  guarded  by  singing  cherubim 

Bringing  their  homage 

To  her  pain, 

Her  silence 

And  her  solitude 

Briefly  enforced 

For  evermore. 

If  you  follow  and  follow 

A  winding  road 

Dusty  white  between  olive  trees, 

Where  the  regal  grapes 

Hang  over  the  wall 

And  the  peasants  sing 

For  the  joy  of  the  wine, 

You  will  come  at  last 

75 


To  her  dwelling  place 

Isolate 

On  the  top  of  the  hill, 

Supremely  brave 

Against  the  sky, 

A  citadel  for  an  outcast  queen 

Slumbering  thro'  eternity. 


ROSE 


OH  my  beloved ! 
I  have  seen  you  rise 
From  the  mists  of  the  valley 
As  Aphrodite 
From  the  sea, 
Infinitely  beautiful, 
Every  tower 
A  song 

In  the  sunshine 
And  all  your  clustered  domes 
And  turrets 
And  high  airy  loggias 
Redolent  of  praise ! 
I  have  seen  the  hills 
Rejoice  in  you 
And  the  olive  groves 
Stir  to  enfold  you 
And  all  the  garden-country 
Wherewith  you  lie 
Encircled 

Laugh  in  the  pure  delight  of  you  ! 
It  seems  as  if  the  very  clouds 
Might  stoop  from  heaven 
To  weave  their  filmy  draperies 
About  your  shining  cupolas 
Like  garlands 

79 


In  homage. 

I  too  have  made 

Of  my  heart  an  altar 

And  stood  beside  it 

Chanting 

The  glory  of  you 

And  on  it  I  have  burned 

The  myrrh  and  sandal  of  my  days 

In  contemplation 

Of  your  ageless  splendour 

Forgetting  the  sins 

Upon  your  lovely  head, 

Your  unruly  desires 

And  stormy  passions, 

Your  selfishness 

And  your  sorrow, 

Because  it  were  banal 

To  forgive 

One  who,  like  Helen  of  Troy, 

Has  stirred  the  heart  of  the  world 

Thro'  the  leaden  centuries 

By  the  vision 

Of  her  immortal  loveliness. 


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